


Spin Cycle

by sailaway



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 00:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12594368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: The luxury spa didn't often get a man like that waltzing through its doors.





	Spin Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> For Naph – may you never pass by the laundry room again without thinking of Klaue – and the POTA chat. Love you sinners.

The chime of the little bell over the door was gentle and discreet, but the man who entered the spa was neither of those things. 

The receptionist straightened as he sauntered up to the front desk. A far cry from the sleek, well-groomed clientele she was accustomed to, this man was distinctly out of place. His dark jeans and waistcoat were unobjectionable – expensive, even, to her practiced eye – but beneath rolled-up sleeves his arms were twined with tattoos, another peeking out from his shirt collar. His head, shaved almost to the scalp in back and graced by an arcing tattoo at his nape, was crowned by a riot of loose black curls, threaded with silver to match the salt-and-pepper beard.

She put on her best customer service smile. “Welcome, what can I do for you today?”

“Hello – ” His steely-blue eyes drifted leisurely down to her name tag. “– Nina. I want a massage.”

“I'm sorry, sir, we usually don't take walk-ins.” Business had been slower than usual lately, much to the owner's chagrin, but today was one of the few days they were fully booked up.

“You don't have anything open?” His accent was difficult to place, the vowels clipped and flat and undercut with a low, unpolished grit.

“Not for the rest of the afternoon, no.”

“I think you do.” The quirk of his mouth was cajoling as he retrieved a battered wallet from his back pocket. For half a second she expected a crumpled wad of cash, but instead he merely slid a credit card across the glossy counter. She gulped at the sight of the distinctive Black Card, exclusive to only the staggeringly wealthy and well-connected. She'd only processed one once before.

She met his eyes. One dark brow was arched in expectant amusement.

“I'll see what I can do,” she said, pulling up the schedule on her computer. As they say, money talks, and she knew how the owner prized this kind of affluent business. “What kind of service were you looking for today?” 

“Nothing fussy. Just something that'll get the job done.” The half-smile he flashed her revealed a glint of gold. “Quick and dirty.” 

She blinked, and flushed, and focused hard on the screen. “In that case I might be able to squeeze something in if you don't mind waiting. A massage therapist will be available for you in about a half hour.” 

His gaze raked over her. “What about you?”

“Me?” It came out higher than intended. “I'm sorry, I can't do that. I'm just a receptionist.”

He shrugged one broad shoulder and leaned on the counter. The muscles of his forearm played beneath the tattoos as he twirled the card, a pair of tarnished rings catching the light. “Rub your hands around a bit, right? Can't be hard.”

Nina laughed. “I think the therapists would take an issue with that assertion.” 

He seemed to appreciate the joking retort. “I'm sure you could manage something.” 

She felt the blush rising again. “I'm sorry, I'm not licensed.”

“I promise I won't hold that against you.”

“But it's illegal – ”

His smirk was lethal. “Never bothered me before.”

She stood quickly, flustered. “If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment while I speak to my supervisor.” 

She didn't look back as she escaped to the office.

“There's someone at the front who wants me to give him a massage,” she explained, nervously fiddling with the spotless white hem of her uniform tunic. “He won't take no for an answer.” 

“I'll handle it,” Lori said, irritated. The spa wasn't used to a rough sort of crowd but occasionally some spoiled richie-rich would swan in demanding things and it was easier to assuage their ego than make a scene.

“How can we help you today, sir?” Lori's voice was cool and calm but Nina could tell the moment she spotted the Black Card. The man was brazenly clicking it on the counter, showing it off, even; the owner would be enraged if she let a high roller get away.

"I hear there's an issue with all of our massage therapists being currently occupied,” she began. 

He indicated Nina, brow ticking up. “This one isn't.” 

Nina's gaze slid to Lori. Her supervisor was put in a predicament. Enforce policy and stay on the right side of the law, or deny this clearly wealthy prospective client and risk pissing off the owner if the man complained? 

“I'm sure you'll be more than satisfied if you'd like to wait for one of our senior therapists.” 

“Nah,” he said, and though his tone was jocular, it brooked no argument. “I want this one.” 

Lori's shift in posture was subtle, but deferential. “Then she'll be happy to serve you today.” 

Nina's head jerked to her, lips parting and ready to protest. In her peripheral vision the man smiled, cocky and pleased. 

As Lori abandoned her Nina did not look at him, but she could feel the weight of his appraisal as she crossed back behind the desk and processed the transaction. The name on the card said Ulysses Klaue. Unusual name, for an unusual individual. 

As she returned the card she met his eyes again. He was watching her with an indefinable blend of curiosity and amusement and something more complex, something primal, and her stomach did a flip as she rose from her chair.

“If you'll follow me.” 

She could feel Klaue's gaze on her as he followed her out of the foyer, taking a right down the L shaped hall and opening the door to an unoccupied massage room. The walls were painted a creamy neutral, the floor polished bamboo. In preparation for the next client the sound system was already playing quiet flute music. 

“I'll give you a moment to get ready.” 

His nod was lazy as he strolled in, already flicking open the buttons of his waistcoat without even waiting for her to shut the door. She all but slammed it, turning tail and speeding back down the hallway to where Lori had taken over at the front.

“You can't make me do this,” Nina hissed, “I've never given a massage in my life. And it's against the law!”

“I know that.” Lori pinched the bridge of her nose. “Look, I've got the boss breathing down my neck. Please just do this. It'll be quick and over before you know it. Besides, does this look like the kind of guy who's going to go tattle to the cops?” 

Nina took longer than she needed to walk back down the hall, each footstep heavy with nerves. She gave a light rap on the door to announce herself before slipping in. 

The man was stretched out on his stomach on the table, arms folded under his head. The towel was only haphazardly draped from lower back to mid-thigh, and though the material was plush and luxurious, it couldn't hide the prominent curve of his ass. 

As the door clicked shut behind her she stood motionless, a deer in the headlights. She really didn't have a clue how to proceed. She crossed to the cabinet and opened it, taking stock of the many bottles of oil. The background music was supposed to be soothing but it wasn't having the intended effect.

“Do you know what kind of oil you'd prefer?” Was that even a question a masseuse typically asked?

“Whatever you like.” His response was lackadaisical. 

She picked one at random and stood, pouring a dollop into her cupped palm and rubbing to spread it across both hands. The crisp eucalyptus scent wafted up as she turned back to the table. 

She could do this. She could be professional. He was just a person. 

She took a deep breath and spread her fingers over his shoulder blades. His was a sturdy body, tough and flexible, the now-dormant strength evident even as he lay still and quiet. She kneaded her thumbs into his broad shoulders, over deltoids bunched from the position of his arms. His skin was already so warm, glistening from the oil as she broke up the knots and tension. 

This Klaue obviously had money, and was used to getting what he wanted, but it wasn't a stretch to suspect it had not come through the normal channels. There was a faint scar, like a starburst, just under his ribcage, and a slim white line on his tricep that looked like a knife slash. On his neck, below the metal cuff on his ear and above the corded pendant he wore, was a crude symbol that her brain could only process as having come from a brand. 

She knew massage therapy could be applied to burns and scars. Was that something he wanted? Wouldn't he have already specified? 

Tentatively she slid her fingertips up over the raised scarring of the brand. He flinched, and she braced herself to be scolded; but he said nothing, and she continued applying the gentlest circling pressure before gliding her hands down his back in short, even strokes. 

When she reached the dip in his lower back she was horrified at the tug of arousal unfurling low in her belly. Curiosity about what was beneath the towel needled her and she had to force her hands to lift up and move down over it, simultaneously cringing at and chastising herself for her lechery.

But her thoughts were unruly, desire creeping in as she began to massage his muscular thighs. Even in repose he possessed a palpable energy, as if like a cat basking in the sun he could spring into action at any moment. Without looking at him she focused on the décor, cataloging it in her mind though she'd seen it all before: wooden side table with three candles in a row, a glass bowl of decorative river rocks, a large round mirror with a black frame.

Her heart stuttered. Klaue was watching her in the mirror. 

Her pace faltered only for a moment before she managed to continue. But she was unable to break eye contact, couldn't break away from the reflection of his heavy-lidded blue eyes and the subtle grin toying at the corner of his mouth.

Did the man never stop smirking? She dragged her attention back to her task, frowning.

“What's that look for?” His teasing jarred the quiet ambiance. 

“It's not for anything,” she murmured, side-stepping the question. 

“I think I gave you a nice change of pace,” he mused, propping his chin on the back of his hands. “Sitting there all day, smiling and kow-towing to people? Would send me to an early grave.” 

“I can imagine,” she replied. She couldn't envision him succeeding at being polite and solicitous for any decent length of time.

“So now you get to spend a half hour with me.” His tone was playful, but it dropped down almost to a bass on the last words and a fresh swell of heat tightened in her core. “I rescued you. You should thank me.”

“Thank you?” she repeated, disbelieving, to confirm what she was hearing.

His chuckle was smug. “You're welcome.”

It was impossible to hold back an incredulous giggle at the gall of him. She was torn between exasperation and an undeniable but generous dose of uncertain fascination. She had never encountered anyone like this, at work or otherwise. 

His smart-mouthing had almost distracted her from his body but the keen awareness came rushing in again. She pulled her hands back abruptly. That was good enough, right? 

“What, done already?” he queried, pushing up on his hands. The muscles in his back and biceps flexed and she stared, fixated, before doing a 180 and moving stiffly away to grab a clean towel. 

“I'm not sure if I got my money's worth,” came the scraping gravel of his voice behind her.

She wiped her oiled hands on the towel more briskly than necessary.

“You knew I wasn't a therapist so you have only yourself to blame.” She couldn't believe she'd spoken that way to a client and she froze as she heard the creak and shift of the table behind her as he got up.

“Oh, you think so?” he returned. She could sense his gaze boring into her but at least he sounded humored rather than insulted by her backtalk. Not that he'd have any right to complain about that. 

It was standard for a client to wait until alone to get dressed but now she was stuck, pretending to wipe her hands over and over. She heard his towel hitting the floor and swallowed hard, knowing he was standing nude behind her. His clothes rustled, the soles of his boots making muffled thuds on the floor. 

“Practice makes perfect,” he reminded. “I was a very willing subject.” 

It was a silly line and yet she felt like Eve in the garden, beguiled by the a rogue of a serpent – one with a sinful voice and a crooked smile and a flickering charming tongue. 

She braced herself before turning around, making sure her smile was in perfect place. He stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back a little on his heels, managing to inexplicably look both boyish and impossibly dangerous.

“If you follow me,” she said, with false courtesy, “I'll show you up to the front.” 

Out in the hallway he did not follow her, but walked side by side, as if it entertained him to match her hurried pace. They were about to round the corner when abruptly a strong hand closed over her wrist.

“What are you – ”

She had no opportunity to finish her indignant exclamation before he yanked her into the laundry room.

The dimly-lit closet was cramped, with barely enough space to turn around, and she was inevitably crammed flush against him. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded, adrenaline racing through her veins and heart pounding as if it would break free from under her sternum.

His grip on her ass was proprietary and firm, pulling her tighter against the hard length of his body. The herbal scent of the oil stood out from the soft floral of fabric softener. He didn't break eye contact, looking at her down his nose as he kicked a cardboard box of bulk-order detergent jugs in front of the door to block it.

The angle of his mouth was sultry, earring glinting in the low light. “Giving you a well-deserved tip.”

He crowded her even more, forcing her back until the lip of the washing machine dug into her. His expression was almost feral, jaw working. 

“I shouldn't be doing this,” she breathed. She inhaled shakily, trying desperately to gather her thoughts, and even this brushed the front of her uniform against him.

He braced one hand on the machine, leather bracelet catching the hem of her shirt, then the other on her other side, caging her in. His knee nudged between hers. “You don't sound very convinced.” 

When she tried to reply, nothing came out.

The shift of his body was predatory as he invaded what little space she had left, sturdy thigh pressing up more firmly between hers. She shivered, and at her tell-tale reaction his blue eyes flashed and without warning he claimed her mouth. His kiss was a torment, the most erotic and deliberate teasing as he caught her bottom lip between his teeth. She inhaled sharply at the sting, apprehension incinerated by the flames of pent-up desire... and gave in to it, winding her arms around his neck. She could feel his searing smirk as he deepened the kiss, with a tongue more skilled than it had any right to be, unraveling her second by second. 

With deft movements his hands spanned her waist and lifted her onto the washing machine, his hips slotting between her legs. With no hesitation his mouth was on her throat, beard tickling, and she gasped as he nipped at the sensitive skin. One hand spread over her lower back, molding her to him, and she crumpled his shirt in her fists. 

“Hips up, love.” His voice was the barest rumble. Without thought she complied, wiggling as he tugged down her pants and underwear alike, yanking off her shoes and tossing the lot aside.

She gasped at his audacity as he dropped to his knees, sliding calloused hands under her ass and hauling her almost to the edge of the machine. His breath was light and warm on the delicate crease of her inner thigh, and he shot her a shameless grin. 

“I bet you were wet that whole time.” His murmured challenge hummed against her skin. “Weren't you? Like I couldn't tell.”

His tongue was obscene, licking up her folds, putting on a show for her. She could only gawk, trembling, an unintelligible noise bubbling up and choking her.

“Just what I thought,” he accused, low and triumphant. “Filthy.” 

As his mouth closed over her clit she moaned raggedly, toes curling. With one hand she gripped the machine for support, the other sinking into the tumble of dark curls. His hair was softer than it looked and she seized a handful harder than she meant to, whimpering at his clever application of mouth and tongue. His beard was a titillating texture on her heated flesh, his rings clicking between her bare ass and the washing machine's lid. His eyes kept flicking to hers, heavy-lidded and gleaming, as if he relished the effect he had on her. Arrogant, but he could think whatever he liked as long as he didn't stop – 

But he did, wearing that infernal grin again and tonguing at his bottom lip. There was so little room and as he rose his body slid up hers, rough palm skimming over her thigh and ripping open the snaps on her uniform shirt. She panted, hot with need and unfulfilled pleasure, scrabbling with quivering fingers at his waistcoat and shirt and pulling them open. Spreading across his powerful chest was a tattoo of some kind of skull, maybe an antelope's, horns aligning with his collarbones. 

She may have touched him thoroughly during the massage but that had been different; she'd been trying to distract herself, to remain aloof and unaffected. Now she didn't have to hold back, could truly feel him without reserve as he crushed her to him, setting his teeth on her thrumming jugular. She felt drunk with the tactile contrast between his oiled skin and crisp scattering of chest hair, the compact musculature shifting against her.

Emboldened, she curved her fingertips over back of his head, sliding over the bristling hair and up into the lush curls. The evidence of his own arousal jutted against her soaked entrance, separated only by a layer of denim. She arched against him, seeking that friction, wanting the fullness of this provoking and captivating stranger inside her.

Reading her mood, he slid his waistband down, belt buckle clicking, just enough for his trousers to sling low over the ridges of muscle arrowing down over his hips. She swayed toward him, drawn as if magnetically, as he unzipped his fly and worked his jeans down even further.

Slipping out of black boxer-briefs, his cock was thick and veined; and, unexpectedly twinkling at the tip, was a diamond stud. She stared at the piercing as it winked in the low light, as cheeky as its owner.

“Cat got your tongue?” Klaue leaned in, the silky head of his cock and its gem brushing her mound as his lips slanted over hers. He caught at her tongue with his teeth, hard enough to make her yelp, and she grabbed his necklace like an anchor and squirmed against him. The heat of his shaft flirting with her slick folds was dizzying, but not enough, and she moaned as he dropped his mouth to her jawline, her ear, sucking at the lobe. 

“You have to ask me nicely,” he rasped, deliberately tilting his hips to slide his cock over her clit. One hand came up to cup her breast beneath her bra, toying with the peaking nipple.

“Please,” she whined, the most broken whisper. “Please-please...” 

He sheathed himself in one swift and forceful thrust, slamming the air from her lungs in a stifled moan. He dragged two fingers over her lips, bridling the sound, slipping his thumb in to press on the tip of her tongue.

In the cramped space his thrusts were tight and controlled and deep, the white noise of the machines drowning out her abbreviated little gasps. She clung to his shoulders, held steady by his hands on her hips as he drove into her, overwhelming and relentless, pushing her higher and barely letting her catch her breath.

His mouth was as busy in sex as it was in sass and he devoured her neck, jolts of pleasure firing down to her center. She was barely hanging on to her last shreds of control and when she cried out, too loud even for the machines to mask, his rough hand came up to silence her. 

All at once her climax wracked her, wave after pulsing wave, and she locked her ankles around him and rode it out with gulping, strangled moans. He took this as his cue to come too and he ground into her, his groan shuddering out of him and vibrating against her skin. It was as if the sound carried straight through her and if she hadn't finished already, she would have then.

She let her head fall forward onto his shoulder, spiraling slowly back to reality. After a few harsh breaths he withdrew, tossing his head to shake the curls from his eyes. She slid boneless from the machine, blinking away the post-orgasm mist and fumbling to yank on her pants and stuff her feet into her shoes. He was leisurely as he rearranged his own clothing, lewd as he took in her movements, as if she were undressing all over again rather than covering up.

“For an untrained masseuse,” he mused aloud, fastening the last button of his waistcoat. “I must say I feel very relaxed.” 

She was still sex-flushed but she turned even pinker. Her ponytail was disheveled and flopping now and Klaue tugged the elastic band out, raking her loose hair back and cocking his head to appraise the effect. 

“I might have to make a spa day a habit.” Then he smirked, slipped the purple band over his wrist, and snapped it.

“I need that,” she blurted. “I have to have my hair pulled back. Dress code.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, Adam's apple bobbing with a silent laugh. “Aren't we just breaking all sorts of rules today.” 

His gaze drifted down to her mouth, and with what might have been a wink he swaggered out the door. 

Nina pushed a damp strand of hair from her face, exhaling long and low. Then she rethought, pulling her hair around on one side to hide the hickey that was undoubtedly forming. The stacked towels on the shelves were innocuous, the machines spinning along as if nothing had happened. Just a laundry room. 

She'd missed one of the snaps on her uniform top. She swore, and started to redo them all again.

Whether Ulysses Klaue meant what he'd said about the spa day, one thing was sure. She would never smell eucalyptus the same way again.


End file.
